On warm summer nights, when the air is moist and melts into my skin, and the moon is bright, casting an enchanting beacon over the neighborhood, I steal away to my haven. With a cozy blanket in my right hand, and a pen and paper in my left, I advance to my balcony. I find a snug place to lie, and with a peaceful sigh I curl up in my blanket and survey my surroundings.

The old oak to my left, a child of the earth, is fully mature. Its long branches divide across the night sky, its numerous leaves holding countless memories since the day of sprouting. The oak’s limbs complement perfectly with the moon, forming a masterpiece that introduces radiance to the night. The hard bark is warm on this night, as if this magnificent creature were alive and willing to tell me its secrets.

The pond to my right is one of the last remaining in the area. It has survived the destruction of mankind, and has remained beautiful in its stance. The surface shimmers in the moonlight, its ripples softly shattering all pain and grief, giving way to the delight that lies below. The nearly invisible fish frolic in the pond’s sea-bottom meadows, demonstrating elegance and grace like no dancer has before.

And the moon, my shining gleam of light resting in the heavens above, flows through me like the blood circulating in my veins. Surreal like a dream, this enchanter uses the night wind as hands to caress my mind into utter content. Its angelic glow illuminates my paper, inviting me to create another poem, to spill my heart, mind, and soul and watch as my pen weaves them into a work of art others can enjoy.

On warm summer nights I allow my imagination to spin and leap across the paradise of the night, picking artistry from the sky like apples from trees. I let the allure of the moon and stars guide me to a place that truly feels like home.